


Breathe for Me

by blueink3



Series: Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brief mentions of past trauma, Drugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7169348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His joints were stiff and his skin was clammy, but the pleasant buzzing in his ears still kept the demons at bay and that was good enough for him. </p><p>It hadn’t been good enough for John, though, whom he found sitting at his bedside, grim yet determined expression carved into the marble of his features.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe for Me

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt from @mphelmsman9: “Could you do one for panic attacks? John finds out that the drugs are actually Sherlock trying to self medicate?”

“How bad?” he had heard a voice ask. 

“Bad enough,” another had replied. 

He was far enough down the rabbit hole for him to not immediately recognize that the voices belonged to John and Mycroft, respectively. Things were working, then. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the narcotic cocktail open his lungs, clear his mind, quiet the voices. _So many voices._ He enveloped himself in the warm cocoon of cocaine’s loving embrace and let the blissful sense of nothingness tug him back under. 

He woke some time later – the sun had descended in the sky, hiding behind the distant buildings outside the hospital window. 

His joints were stiff and his skin was clammy, but the pleasant buzzing in his ears still kept the demons at bay and that was good enough for him. 

It hadn’t been good enough for John, though, whom he found sitting at his bedside, grim yet determined expression carved into the marble of his features. 

“Never again,” John begged after several tortuous minutes of silence. 

Hm. Perhaps he had gone a bit too far under. John never begs. 

“For me, Sherlock. Please.” His voice cracked. “Never again.” 

As the drugs wore off, the walls closed in, but Sherlock had nodded and swallowed, blaming the sudden tightness of his throat on the comedown, and not on the helpless heartbreak in John’s eyes. 

He told himself he would forget it. Delete the way that piercing gaze clocked every inch of his malfunctioning transport – 

But that was then, and this is now, and no recollection of John’s judgment will stop him from putting that needle in his arm. 

He stands silhouetted in the window, Baker Street suddenly silent beyond, as he stares at John’s expression of utter and complete betrayal. 

“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.” 

“Did you have a particular lie in mind?” he hotly retorts, but he knows it’s the adrenaline talking. The walls are closing in again and if he doesn’t shoot up in the next five minutes, his hands will be too shaky to insert the needle. His palms too sweaty to even hold it properly.

His breathing too uneven to even keep him conscious.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John spits, stepping forward and reaching for the needle.

Sherlock thanks his father for his height as he holds it aloft, out of John’s grasp.

“I will bring you to your knees if I have to,” John growls, voice level yet lethal. “You know I can.”

It’s only decades of practice that keep the careful mask of coolness in place on Sherlock’s face. Internally, though, things are rapidly spiraling out of control.

Since he can’t reach the needle, John settles for loosening the knot on the tourniquet, bringing feeling rushing back into Sherlock’ fingers. The Army doctor has a habit of doing that – making Sherlock feel things. It’s hateful.

It’s wonderful.

His momentary distraction allows John to hook a foot around his leg and bring him rather swiftly to one-knee. The needle is plucked from his fingers and with it goes his last sense of comfort. Of safety. Of hope.

“John, you don’t understand. I _need_ that,” he grits as John scoffs.

“Need it, do you?” He strides to the kitchen, depresses the cocaine into the sink and bins the needle. “No, what you need is a good arsekicking.”

Sherlock remains on his knees in the living room, the sounds of Baker Street slowly beginning to chip away at his defenses. The quiet has long since passed.

“John, please.”

“No, don’t. Don’t do that with me,” John says, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, hands on his hips. He’s fighting emotion, yet doing a remarkably good job of keeping the disappointment clear in his eyes. “I asked you. I  _begged_  you,” he breathes, voice raw, and something inside Sherlock breaks.

“I know,” he responds quietly, because it’s true. He can’t refute it. He made a promise and now he’s broken it, only to leave the pieces of damning evidence scattered at John’s feet.

The adrenaline is fading and panic is taking up more place than it’s been allotted.

_Kazakhstan: knife wound. Spain: gunshot. Serbia: whip lash._

Breath: sharp. Blood: rushing. Ears: ringing.

“Sherlock, are you even listening to me?” John’s voice echoes, like he’s speaking under water.

_China: waterboarding. Germany: cigarette burn. France: another gunshot._

Sherlock blinks his eyes (sluggish) and focuses on John who’s moved closer, worry now clouding the anger in his eyes. John takes a knee in front of him and rests a hand (steady, firm) on Sherlock’s shaking shoulder.

“You don’t need this,” he whispers fiercely. Not harshly, but with enough conviction that Sherlock has no choice but to believe him. “You don’t need it.”

“Don’t I?” Sherlock asks, and he so desperately wants to believe him.

“No,” John replies, bringing his hands up to cup Sherlock’s face. “You have me.” 

“John,” he sobs as he falls forward, knowing John’s arms will save him from the landing.

_It’s not the fall that kills you…_

“Breathe, Sherlock,” he registers John murmuring into his hair. “Breathe for me.”

He inhales a rattling gasp, air fighting against the vise on his lungs.

“That’s it,” John quietly urges, pulling back enough to brace Sherlock’s shoulders and rest their foreheads together. “With me. In and out.” He places Sherlock’s palm on his chest, allowing the detective to match him breath for breath. “Slow it down, that’s it.”

Sherlock nods and it’s enough to set him off-kilter, but John gets a hand around the nape of his neck and holds him gently in place.

“You’re doing so well,” he reassures, hand on top of Sherlock’s own, which is warm against John’s shirt. “With me. In and out.”

For once in his life, Sherlock does as he’s told.

The panic eventually subsides, leaving him a weak and sweaty jumble of limbs on the floor. John gently removes his suit jacket, undoes his top two buttons, and pushes his matted curls away from his forehead. “Better?”

“Truth be told, I feel like death,” Sherlock croaks, throat parched.

“Better to feel it than be it, I think.” There’s no recrimination in his gaze. “Stay here,” he murmurs before disappearing to the kitchen and returning with a glass of water.

Sherlock is floored by how much he misses him in those intervening moments.

“You feel too much, don’t you,” he says has he hands the glass over. It’s not a question.

Sherlock remains quiet, focusing on the collar of John’s shirt, damp with Sherlock’s sweat and tears.

“The panic attacks are new. Since you came back. Too many people. Loud noises. It gets to be too much and the drugs are a way to keep them at bay. Silence it.”

Again, he’s not asking for confirmation or validation. He just… knows.

John Watson – conductor of light, indeed.

“I meant what I said. You don’t need it,” he continues as if this is a conversation between two contributing parties. “You have me and if I’m ever not with you when this happens, you call. I will always, _always_ answer,” John promises, before frowning. “Just don’t abuse the privilege,” he follows up with a soft smile. “If you interrupt my work day just to tell me you brought home a new flesh-eating bacteria, I will be quite cross.”

Sherlock is still staring at him as if he personally arranged the solar system and John cocks his head, as if he knows _exactly_ what Sherlock is thinking. “Deal?”

Sherlock swallows and nods, but words desert him.

“Good. Now,” he groans as he stands and holds out a hand for the lanky detective, “how about you tell me where your stash is, and I’ll leave your sock index alone.”

Sherlock finds himself never needing another needle for recreational purposes again.

John finds his monthly phone bill steadily increasing, even as the panic attacks dwindle. 

Neither really minds the new arrangement.


End file.
